


Wearing the Nightmare

by Cynaera (LFN_Archivist)



Category: La Femme Nikita
Genre: F/M, Season/Series 04 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 11:38:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16474847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LFN_Archivist/pseuds/Cynaera
Summary: This story was originally posted to the LFN Storyboard Archives by Cynaera, who passed away in 2012.





	1. Version One

I don't believe for a moment that she meant what she said to me. She was setting me free. It was her gift to me for -- what? The Shays mission when I set _her_ free? The innumerable times I've broken protocol to pull her out of danger? The unspoken moments when all I could do was meet her eyes and hope that she would see what I was trying to tell her? 

I thought I knew her. I'd made it my second career to know her. My first career has been Section One for too many years, and I never thought there would be another entity to distract me. I was wrong. I think I realized I was lost when she made her first kill. To save my life. I don't know why I didn't hear VanVactor's man behind me. 

That's a lie. I _do_ know why. I was completely, utterly focused on Nikita's safety. Had she not been a part of the equation, the original mission would have gone the same as countless other missions. We would have achieved closure the first time, and subsequent missions would not have been necessary. 

I can't change the past. I failed. It's ironic that Operations' words, uttered at the beginning of Nikita's tenure as an operative, should come back to mock me now. " _If she fails, you fail_ ," he'd said. If any of us had known then what improbable twists our lives would take, perhaps we'd have made different statements, different decisions. But the fact remains - I failed, and I did it, to my dismay, as a direct result of Nikita's influence. 

I'd always thought I could influence her, but again, I was wrong. Instead, she'd touched me so deeply she might as well have plunged her fist through my chest and held my bloody heart for ransom. I trained her to survive. I taught her - or _tried_ to teach her - everything I knew, everything I'd had to learn the hard way. I can't even count the number of times I've stared down the barrel of a gun, the point of a knife, or the tip of a poison-filled needle. 

I have always been able to separate myself from whatever pain was inflicted on me. It's no secret that I refuse to spend a protracted time in Medlab, no matter how badly I'm wounded. Even so, one word from Nikita could cripple me to the point where Section LabMed looked like ClubMed. 

It's all over now. She fooled me so completely that my entire psyche is shattered. I had confidence once - I needed to be positive of things in order to succeed at whatever I did. Now, I doubt my abilities. I question my perceptions - I hesitate where, before, I would have proceeded with surety. 

Operations' words should have been, "If you fail, _you_ fail." I know Nikita won't. She learned from one of the best. I suppose I never thought the student would surpass the teacher. 

As I sit here in this abandoned warehouse, waiting for Section to find and eliminate me, I can't help but remember the time I walked through Comm after a horribly grisly mission. I was covered in blood - that of enemies and of innocents. Each time a cry had rung out, I'd died a little more, but I was grateful that Nikita hadn't been there. It would have sent her into convulsions, I'm sure of it. I glanced up as I'd headed to debrief and saw her standing behind Birkoff, her eyes wide and appalled. I know she hated me in that moment - I was wearing her nightmare on my clothes and skin. 

I still wear the nightmare. Now, though, in addition to her nightmare, I also wear my own, like a badge, like a brand. People see it as plainly as they can see the lines on my face - it's in my eyes, and I can no longer shutter it from the public. 

The nightmare I wear - _my_ nightmare - is named Nikita...


	2. Version Two

I thought I'd seen it all. In a hundred years of living in Section, I honestly didn't believe anything could shock me. But Nikita did. And she was completely unaware of it. 

She strode from van access after what had been, according to Jason, a hellacious mission. Nikita had been held and tortured. And with Michael dead - at least to everyone's assumption - I knew there'd been no one to pull her out of the grip of Black Friday. She'd escaped on her own. 

Yeah, I'd been at the farm, training recruits with potential. It wasn't munitions, but it wasn't cancellation, either, and I really was starting to enjoy the relative freedom. My superiors weren't holding that metaphorical "sword of Damocles" over my head, and it felt good to be able to take a deep breath without a shudder of fear in it. 

Then, Section called all of us back - all except Michael, who couldn't be reached and was presumed dead. I know the kid, and I'm sure he's alive, somewhere. He's free, though, and I think after what Nikita pulled, he wouldn't come back for her - not this time. Damn. Who knew she was so good at fooling people? I mean, I saw how she carried off the Adrian mission, and I was proud of her - so damned proud! I guess it never occurred to me that her gift for fooling people would extend to me. I'm just an old fool who's been alive too long. 

When I saw Nikita walk through the main hall, I wished I'd died a long time ago. Like I said before - I thought I'd seen it all. But never - _NEVER!_ \- had I seen anything like this. 

Nikita was covered, head to toe, in live cockroaches. They were swarming all over her, and she was oblivious to them. I kept shaking my head, trying to clear what I thought was a horrible hallucination. The roaches were still there. And Nikita was still blissfully unmindful of them. 

I closed down the workstation and went straight to Comm. "Jason!" I said, trying to keep the panic out of my voice. 

He looked up, and his face was ashen, his eyes bugged out like Birkoff's always did whenever Michael used to ask him to do something against regulations. "You saw her?" was all I could ask. 

Jason nodded slowly, uncertainly, as if he was having trouble processing simple sentences. Then he spoke, a hushed whisper. "She... she had..." He couldn't finish his sentence - _god_ , how he reminded me of Birkoff sometimes! 

I finished the sentence for him. "She was covered in roaches." 

Jason's eyes went even wider, and he nodded, still speechless. Finally, though, he found his voice. "Walter, what in the _hell_ is going on?" 

I had no words of wisdom for him. I suspected that Nikita had been subjected to some kind of chemical alteration that transferred itself to the people with whom she'd come in contact. Somehow, that chemical made Nikita's worst fears visible to everyone. She was wearing her own nightmare. 

~ ~ ~ 

Okay. It's been a week since Nikita came back from Black Friday. The cockroaches are thinning - they're morphing into rats now. It has to be chemicals inducing hallucinations in the rest of us. I still don't know what the point of it was, but I think the worst of it's over now. I've got my Sugar back, such as she is, through the rats. I wish I could say that life is sweet, but there's still one of my friends unaccounted for. I hope he's not suffering. I hope he's happy and carefree. Yeah, and flying pink dodo birds will do a tango across my worktable. We need him back again. This place is falling apart, and without Michael, nothing can stop it from crashing down around our ears. 

I guess it's time to call in a few favors. Michael is the only one who can make sense out of all this. If nothing else, maybe he won't see the cockroaches. Or the rats. Or whatever the hell _else_ gives Nikita the heeby-jeebies. And if Michael _does_ see them, I don't think it'll matter to him. He's seen worse in his life, especially where Nikita's concerned. Rats are nothing compared to a tortured soul with no hope of redemption. I just hope Michael has enough fight left in him to pull himself _and_ Nikita out of the nightmare. Otherwise, all of us will go under...


	3. Version Three

I don't know how I've been able to carry on this long. I'm a strong person, morally and physically. And growing up, I was timid. I let myself be abused, and I sheltered my convictions and my sense of right and wrong deep inside. Those beliefs were like precious treasures, and I shared them with no one, not even my mother. I think she knew about them, though. At least, I _want_ to believe she did. 

Now, I know her reasons for the actions she took. I used to think she didn't care about me, but she did - she always did. She just wasn't very good at it. 

I look at myself today - my long list of sins and betrayals - and I know that my mother wouldn't want to know me now. I'm not the same person who found wonder in a flower, magic in a sunrise, joy in the smile of a child so many years ago. I keep telling myself that what I do now is for the greater good, but I don't believe it. Too much has happened to me for me to buy into that crap anymore. 

Michael tried his best to hammer Section doctrine into me, but he couldn't do it. Not by logic, or by yelling, or by seduction. He used every trick in his formidable arsenal of weapons, but I couldn't be tamed. He subverted my body, but he didn't know that my mind has always acted independently of my body. I proved it, time and time again, everytime I pushed him away when his hands began to wander over sensitive places. My body wanted him - it betrayed me on numerous occasions with obvious reactions to his touch - but my mind screamed louder than my need. 

Michael never really figured me out completely. He knew a lot about me - embarrassingly so. He knew exactly what day my period was supposed to start, and he was always careful with his words on that day and the days after, just to be safe. He could pinpoint what would anger me on a mission and handle it. In some ways, he was the perfect complement for me. He completed me. 

Now, though, I realize that even Michael couldn't make me love myself and what I've become. All the times I tried so hard to prove to him that _he_ was a valid soul, worth loving, and I didn't even see my own sense of self eroding to silt. 

If Michael were here now, he'd no doubt try to "save" me. He'd sacrifice himself - his principles, his pride, his basic beliefs - in order to restore me to the "innocent" I used to be. And I'd probably have to kill him, because that Nikita is long gone. Michael would deserve better than that. I remember a book I read once, about a kid whose dog was killed. He couldn't accept the death, so he was compelled to take desperate measures to bring his dead dog back to life. He did what he had to do, but when his dog came back to life, he wasn't the same old Shep as he'd been before the accident. He didn't look or act the same. Death had altered him, and he was horrible. 

I'm afraid I'd be like that dog. I don't want Michael to sell any more of his soul to try to make me alive again. I'm a dead dog, and the dead don't walk. I want him to let me stay dead, because if he tries to bring me back, I know I'd be horribly altered. 

As I said before, Michael deserves better than that. The man has already given me more, done more for me, than I can ever repay. The kindest thing I can do for him is to make sure he knows that I have always loved him, and I will always love him, even to death. 

One day, he'll know it. One day, when Section One falls and he sees the people he loves free... One day, I'll give back all that he's given to me, and we'll be even. Then, maybe we can love as man and woman, without the mentor/trainee, dark wraith/golden angel stigmas. We can be on level ground. 

I think I'd like that. It seems so possible, so _real_...even more real than this gun I'm holding - the gun that's as much a part of me as my sunglasses. 

Maybe it's not the right time for me to die, afterall...


	4. Version Three and a Half

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spontaneous Round Robin, with contributions from Kate, KT, Ranma, and a cast of thousands...

**(Kate)**

But, before she pulled the trigger, Nikita decided to put on her nightgown ... 

She had serious problems with killing herself while wearing her mission outfit. It was too Pavlovian for words. 

She put the gun down on the counter, stripped and hunted through her dresser drawer for something comfortable. 

Great. Just perfect. 

As if her life weren't bad enough, she had no clean nightclothes. 

Nikita glanced toward the closet that hid her stackable washer and dryer. The closet was so full with dirty clothes the door wouldn't shut. 

On one hand, she hated to go out wearing something she didn't like. 

On the other hand, she didn't want to wait for the laundry to finish before she took that final step. 

Undecided, Nikita hesitated. There was something at the back of the drawer. Reluctantly, she pulled it out and shook the wrinkles out. 

She supposed, if push came to shove, she could ... 

Wear the nightmare. 

******************** 

**(Cynaera)**

I can't do it. I can't die like this. I can't die _in_ this. It's horrible. Too much material. The color is straight out of the sixties, and I _hate_ the feel of polyester. The armholes are too tight, even after I've been starved for a week. Whoever made this thing must've worked for Red Cell, because it's the ultimate torture device. 

This - this _thing_ was a present from a friend. She's probably dead now. She probably bought one exactly like it for herself, wore it, and died of revulsion. 

Nope - I can't do it. The nightgown's going back in the drawer. Maybe I'll just fix myself some eggs and think about killing myself tomorrow. After laundry. 

************************ 

**(Ranma)**

Nikita struggled. Nikita cursed. Nikita bit. But the nightgown would not come off. Nikita huffed and sighed as the tag in the back scratched against her neck again. She believed she probably had a wound back there by now. 

She wandered into the kitchen, looking for scissors. *Ahh,* she sighed and pulled out a pair of her best scissors. 

The blades broke while the nightgown remained unaffected. 

If only someone would come and save her. 

********************** 

**(KT)**

"Drat these section nightgowns anyway!" Nikita expleted. "I thought chain mail went out with the Dark Ages, you know, the ones that Operations threatened might come back some day?" 

Nikita poured herself a glass of wine. There was a knock at the door. It was one she always pretended not to recognize, but she knew who it was just the same. 

Nikita stared at her broken scissors. Maybe, just maybe, they would be the perfect thing to get the blank stare out of Michael's eyes once and for all. 

No way was she going to answer the door in this damned nightgown. 

"Would you mind waiting," she called through the door. "I was just trying to slip into something more comfortable!!!" 

************************ 

And then ........? 

**(Scorch)**

Frantically she pulled at the fabric, tugging it up over her head .... no good! 

So in desperation she gathered the bottom hem, crossing her arms in front of her like her mother had shown her when she last wore nighties like this monstrosity .... pulling the lower part of the night gown up over her hips it got slightly tighter - but there was a chance - a slim one ........ 

The cool air caused goose-bumps on her now exposed thighs - was she wearing panties? Damn, she couldn't recall if she had taken them off with the mission pants or not ....and her arms were now trapped in the nightie as if she was wearing a strait jacket .. one more tug , surely that was all it would take.....

She exerted all the force her muscular biceps could muster and managed to wrench the awful fabric over her head ... now she couldn't see a thing - but it was nearly off. She breathed a sigh of relief - but not for long ..... 

The next thing she heard was the slamming of the door as Michael came crashing into the apartment .... 

********************* 

She was thrown to the floor... 

**(Cynaera)**

...with a flying tackle that would have felled a horse. They hit solidly, both tangled in the material of the polyester nightmare. Nikita squirmed, struggling to get free of Michael and material. 

His arms tightened around her. She struggled more fiercely. He pinned her with his body. She stopped struggling and lay perfectly still, panting a little. She could hear his breath in soft puffs against her ear. 

"I thought you were in danger," he whispered, a touch of remorse in his tone. 

"I _was_!" she growled. "This nightgown is a living thing and it wants me dead!" 

Despite the seriousness of the situation, which really wasn't all _that_ serious, his mouth quirked in a smile Nikita couldn't see, her head being covered by the nightgown. "Michael, would you help me get this thing _off_?" she demanded peevishly. 

Michael lifted himself off her body, grabbed the hem of the nightgown, and pulled it over her head, freeing her arms. Her hair looked like a haystack, and her eyes blazed blue and dangerous. 

She had never been more beautiful to him. His blood pounded in his ears, and for a moment, he forgot why he'd come there. Then, when he remembered, he willfully forgot again. The moment was too precious, too rare, and he wasn't about to waste it with business. 

Not yet, anyway...... 

**************************** 

Nikita realized, belatedly, that she was naked, and that Michael's eyes were a dark, smoldering Bayou green. She knew that look. It inevitably led to wild, passionate, athletic activity of a sensual nature. 

Quite unexpectedly, she wished for the nightgown to blanket her nudity from that predatory gaze. "M-Michael..." she began, and tried to slowly crab-crawl away from him. He followed her on his hands and knees, a stalking panther. There was the hint of a smile teasing his lips. 

Nikita began to fear for her long-lost virtue. Her eyes casting about, she spied the nightgown and snatched it up, struggling in vain to get the thing back on in a futile effort to cover herself. Michael slowly shook his head, and a split second later, he was pinning her to the floor once more, her wrists pinioned above her head, his face very close to hers. "Don't fight me, Nikita," he whispered, his lips barely grazing hers. "I've waited long enough..." 

And then he kissed her, and any thoughts of wearing the nightmare flew out of her head, as did her resistance, her common sense, and her rationality. _Damn him_! she thought savagely, even as her arms wound around his neck and she felt him settle more heavily atop her. 

When he finally pulled away from her, she gave a soft whimper and tried to pull him back. He laughed softly, huskily, and said, "One of us is wearing too much clothing." 

Nikita began to tear at his shirt, stripping it up and over his head. The black jeans were another matter - Michael couldn't remove them without getting off Nikita, and he wasn't positive she wouldn't try to either escape from him or shoot him. 

So........ 

*veg* from Cyn 

********************* 

So.... 

**(Catsma)**

He smiled devilishly down at Nikita and slowly ground his hips against her aching body.... 

"That should do the trick...." he thought to himself, "I'll get her so aroused she won't even be able to think of shooting me.." 

Nikita moaned at the sensation, every cell in her body slowly melting. Any thoughts of resisting - or heaven forbid shooting him - left her mind. 

"My-kol..." she groaned. "I need you..." 

She reached greedily for him and undid the button at the top of his skin tight black jeans. His arousal strained the fabric and her breath caught. 

Her eager fingers grabbed the zipper tag and yanked downwards.. 

"Ack!!....no!!!..." 

The zipper stayed stubbornly stuck... 

"Ah merde!!..." 

Michael's eager flesh protested her yank on the zipper....and he moaned in protest. 

"My-kol...do something..." Nikita's frustration was unbearable..."what's wrong with your pants..." 

"Ah mon coeur...these are polyester imitation jeans...I couldn't afford my favorite Eddie Bauer brand...now that I no longer work for Section..." 

She writhed in torment..there had to be something they could do...if she didn't have him soon..she'd go crazy. As she lay there on the floor, Nikita glanced around and saw her scissors lying next to their prone bodies. 

She reached for them...... 

************************ 

And ... 

**(Kate)**

And the damned things came apart in her hands. Stupidly, she stared at them and then jerked toward Michael. 

"What are you trying to do? Kill me? Or just ... amputate parts of me?" He flipped the scissors away from her and frowned down at her. 

"Uh ... no ..." 

His eyes narrowed and Nikita shifted underneath him. "Michael, would you mind moving just a bit?" 

"Yes, I would." 

"You're squishing me." 

He settled down on her, staring down into her eyes, his weight effectively keeping her still. "I want some answers, Nikita." 

"Are you sure that's what you want?" 

Michael allowed his body to rest even heavier on hers and she let out a little squeak of protest. "Michael, I can't move --" 

"It's unnecessary to move. Start talking. What's with the scissors? Why is your gun out? And why were you wearing this .... this ... garment?" 

"Why...?" 

**(Cynaera)**

Nikita stammered, then realized Michael was talking about the nightmare nightgown - the polyester terror. Several replies came to mind immediately, but the one that she blurted out was, "Because this is Cynaera's story, and she's doing Kate a favor by writing about wearing the nightmare." 

Michael looked completely puzzled, and then his look changed to relief when Nikita dropped the broken scissors and rubbed a weary hand across her eyes. "Oh, Michael, it's a long story, and we really don't have time for explanations right now." 

Michael's gaze swept up and down Nikita's body, and his eyes began to smolder again. " _That's_ what I'm talking about!" Nikita exclaimed in frustration. "That's _exactly_ what I'm talking about. Everytime I'm naked, you give me _that_ look." 

"What look?" he asked absently, still feasting his eyes on Nikita's pierced navel. 

"That... that _Michael_ look. The one that makes women all over the world just melt into their chairs in little puddles of lust. _That_ one." 

"Oh." No other comment for almost half a minute, then, "When did you have that done?" 

"What?" Nikita followed his eyes. "Oh, that. It was a couple of months ago, I guess. I got tired of wearing sunglasses - wanted a more subtle statement." 

Nikita was astonished when Michael burst out laughing. " _Subtle statement_? And you wanted to wear **that** nightmare?" He pointed to the nightgown, wadded up in a pool of loud color next to them. "I think I've just lost the mood." 

He carefully climbed off Nikita, adjusted his jeans, and held out his hand to help Nikita to her feet. She took the proffered hand carefully, suspiciously, and when she was standing, Michael stared straight into her eyes and asked bluntly, "Why did you have your gun out?" 

Nikita was silent. How did she tell him that she was... 

******************* 

That she was... 

**(Unknown)**

As lazy about cleaning her gun as she was about doing her laundry? The damned thing wouldn't have worked anyway, so encrusted it was with leftover residue...and even dried bits of mozzarella and pepperoni from the pizza she'd ordered in last week...oy... 

*************************************** 

Letting herself go 

**(Kate)**

"I've been a little ... depressed." Nikita studied her big toe, realizing that it had been several weeks since she'd polished her toes. The varnish was chipping and ugly. It's true, she decided sadly. I've really let myself go. Not only have I stopped painting my nails, I was actually going to wear that awful nightgown. 

"Depressed," Michael repeated. 

Nikita's eyes flickered up to Michael's, then down again. 

"I ... uh ... I've not been myself lately," she tried again. 

"Well, I can see that," Michael said mildly. "Wretched nightgowns. Pierced navels. Guns laying around with God knows what gunking up their insides. What's wrong with you?" 

"Maybe I need ... a vacation," Nikita suggested. 

"That's out of the question right now," Michael said, and he even sounded as if he were a little sorry about it. "But you could take a day off, perhaps." 

"One day isn't going to be enough. Never mind. I suppose you came over to take me to Section?" 

"I can be ... flexible." 

How flexible? Nikita wondered, then immediately suppressed the thought. 

Michael shrugged out of his shirt -- most of the buttons were scattered across the floor anyway -- and handed it to Nikita. It was soft and unstarched, and he'd already cut the tag out so when she put it on nothing scratched her. She fastened the one remaining button and a smile tugged at her mouth. 

"Now," Michael said, sitting on a barstool. He took one of the tapered candles out of its holder and began waxing the zipper of his pants in an effort to eventually free himself. "Besides the fact that you have no clean clothes, probably no food in your ice box and a gun that is useless, why don't you tell me what's wrong?" 

************************* 

**(Cynaera)**

Nikita pulled the shirt tighter around her, breathing Michael's scent, feeling her heart instantly lift. 

"I'm... I... don't _know_ what's wrong," she stammered, her face flushing. It was a lie - she knew _exactly_ what was wrong. She was a murderess, a liar, a thief, a blackmailer, a betrayer. She was every vile thing she's sworn she'd never be. If there was a core of goodness within her, it was buried so deeply she couldn't see it anymore. 

The words finally came out, haltingly. "Michael, I'm not who I thought I was. I'm not anybody I want to know anymore." 

Michael, having freed himself from the inferior-quality zipper, could focus his full attention on the face of his life-dance. She was near tears, and he knew that tears did not come easily to her lately. Section had broken her, and Center had rebuilt her in their image. 

Aloud, he said, "You've been through a lot in a short time. It would change anybody. Even an operative of your caliber." 

Nikita stared hard at him. It was the closest thing to a professional compliment he'd paid her recently - not that he'd been given many opportunities to compliment her in the past year. She'd been eluding Section surveillance, checking in at Center, and avoiding Michael whenever possible. He'd been a relentless pursuer - completely focused on her, finding her when even Section couldn't locate her. A man with a mission. 

Now, she felt another smile quirk at the corners of her mouth. _Michael_. "Thank you," she said softly, and ran a hand through her hair to smooth it from her face. 

"For what?" Michael asked, bemused, his eyes gentle and a blurred green. 

"For knowing." 

"Knowing?" 

"What I'm feeling. How I'm doubting myself. Hating myself for doing what I've done to you." 

"You've done nothing to me." _Except tear my heart out and feed it to me without salt_. 

"Not true, Michael, and you know it. I'm everything I hated when I first came to Section." She paused, then added, feeling the tears come, finally, "And I have that stupid nightgown. I guess it's a reminder of what a nightmare my life is, and what a nightmare I've made of _your_ life..." 

Michael leaned over, brushed her tears away with his thumb, and whispered, "No, ma cherï¿½ ~ you're the only thing in my life that _isn't_ a nightmare." He wouldn't tell her about his revelation in the barn while he was waiting to die. She didn't need to know how close he'd come to taking his own life, and how something inside him had stopped his finger on the trigger. 

All she needed to know was that he was with her again, they were together, and nothing anyone could do would interfere with it. He would make certain of it... 

********************************* 

As Michael 

**(KT)**

moved closer and looked deeply into her shining blue pools, a pained look came over his gorgeous face. 

"Michael!" Nikita exclaimed, alarmed at his expression. "What is it??" 

His eyes dropped as he saw that the zipper of his pants had come undone at last, and was caught in his... 

Nikita's eyes followed his, and as she set her gaze on her second most favorite part of him, she began to giggle uncontrollably. 

"Talk about a mood destroyer," Michael muttered. 

Nikita reached down and started to extricate his short hairs from his zipper, but she was laughing so hard that all she did was cause him more pain. 

"Hey!" he practically shouted. 

"Oh, Michael. The Impervious. Michael the Numb. After all the torture you've endured for Section, are you going to succumb to a little zipper? Hmmm?" 

_That does it_! he thought, as he reached down to tear her hands away from his pants. 

****************************** 

He used more force than necessary.... 

**(Cynaera)**

... tearing her hands away from his crotch. He completely broke character, yanking off first one vibram-soled boot then the other, then socks, stripping off the cheap black slacks and standing in his black boxers. 

What a duo they made - Michael in black boxers, Nikita in Michael's maimed shirt. She looked up and down his body, trying desperately not to laugh. Michael gazed at Nikita, thinking, _She looks better in that shirt than I ever did._

Nikita lifted her arms helplessly, the sleeves of the oversized shirt sliding back to reveal her wrists and forearms. "So - what now?" she asked, but her eyes gave the answer. All she needed was for Michael to respond. She prayed earnestly that he _would_ respond... 

He did, in the only way he knew how. He took two steps toward her, gathered her into his arms, and held her tightly, letting her feel his desire, his vulnerability, his love. His body, pressed full against her own, his lips fervently seeking her cheek, her neck, her collarbone... He whispered, "Nikita..." 

All her senses were ratcheted into hypersensitivity. His whispering of her name made her blood pulse through her veins at an unnatural pace. Nothing else mattered. Everything she was, everything she could ever be, was riveted to Michael as his hands caressed her through his shirt. _Take me_... she pleaded silently. _Michael, please take me_... 

His softly whispered words made Nikita stiffen and struggle against him. "Nikita.... put the nightgown back on..."


End file.
